


studies in apathy

by brietopia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords, Star Wars Legends: Legacy Era - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brietopia/pseuds/brietopia
Summary: A series of (prompted) Atton/Halosia drabbles, originally posted on my Tumblr.





	1. Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set right before the the civil war on Iziz!! my Exile beats herself up for appointing Atton as the temple's team leader bc she's terrified of losing him, so I've always hc'd they share their first kiss right before, in the rain, on what is probably one of the Exile's least favorite planets...

She watches him go, ‘saber in hand, stalking through the wet Dxun grass. And maybe it’s the Force, or just her own heart, that pulls the word from her—his name, a spear, hurtling through the air.

“Atton!”

He stops. Turns. His lips twitch, curling at the corners, and suddenly, he’s grinning—lopsidedly, crookedly, like he’s not about to lead half their crew into an ancient Sith temple. Fear gnaws at her, clean through. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

And there it is. Doubt. He tries so hard to keep it hidden, but she always recognizes the signs: hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, boots scuffing the grated floor of the _Ebon Hawk_. And, really—after all this time, he still doesn’t know? “I _chose you_ , Atton.”

“Doesn’t answer my question, though, does it?”

She sighs. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

He grins. “Good, because I was really looking forward to, y’know, trekking through the jungle, possibly murdering a Sith or two…”

“Don’t forget the beasts,” she adds, halfheartedly.

“The beasts,” he echoes, nodding. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of those. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get to try out that new thing you taught me—”

“Atton.” His name. Just his name. It lingers in the air between them, heavy, the shadow of a noose.

He peers through the rain. At her, or maybe just through her. In any case, she’s not entirely sure where to look. “Halo,” he says, after a moment. Just her name. Soft, low, pounding against her skull.

“Just—” She huffs out a breath. “Be careful.”

The grin returns. Brighter, this time. It doesn’t quite fit right. “You know me.”

“Exactly.” A pause. “I chose you to lead this mission, Atton, and—” she lifts a hand, palm outward— “before you say anything, _no_ , I _still_ haven’t changed my mind. I trust you. But just because I trust you doesn’t mean I’m ignorant to what you’re going to face.”

Silence. Raindrops pound into the ground, tearing up grass, bits of soil, rock. She sees Bao-Dur, in the distance—or, she supposes, his silhouette. Kreia, too. They should leave soon. And, she thinks, the sooner the better; Dxun is, in many ways, the same moon it was years ago. A dark, harsh curve, cutting out parts of sky.

Finally, he speaks, and she can feel the rage in him. It ripples outward, bending the air, the water, the silence. She wants to touch it, wants to let it buck beneath the weight of her palm, but knows she shouldn’t—there are things he doesn’t let her see, and she has to respect that, has to respect the part of him that still, after all this time, wants— _needs_ —to hide.

“If you don’t think I can handle it,” he says, and his mouth hooks an awful sneer, “then maybe you should send—”

“ _Atton_.” His name, again. The first thing he’d trusted her with, and even that was a lie. “I have sent—” and here her voice breaks, almost imperceptibly, another crack in that vast white wall— “ _so many people_ to their deaths. Good, innocent people—”

“I’m neither of those things.”

“Well, neither am I.” She hadn’t meant to snap. But it comes out that way, reckless, needy. “What I’m trying to say is that— _stars_ , Atton. I trust you more than anyone, and if you die, I don’t think I’ll be able to—” Her eyes are stinging, but she can’t tell if it’s from the rain or her tears or the Force, digging its claws into her.

She turns away.

A moment passes. And then, a hand, resting lightly—hesitantly—on her shoulder. His fingers curl against the solid plating of her armor, and she thinks, _Don’t let go._

He doesn’t.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is—she wouldn’t call it soft, but it’s somewhere near there. “I’m not going to die, Halo.”

“You better not.”

He squeezes, and a breath leaves her—warm, misty. Solidifying. “I promise,” he says, and she wants to believe him, but—

But she keeps seeing his body. His dead body, to be precise. Eyes glazed over, hands cut off, blood pouring from his open mouth. And she knows it’s the Force. Showing her the future or, at the very least, a possible future. The bodies of her crew, ravaged, just like Atton’s—they line the path she walks, prostrating, sometimes even headless; a reminder, really, to not stray too far. A warning.

She closes her eyes, and her heart lurches. Even there, behind that veil, he is there. Staring at her, lifeless, but his mouth still forms a word.

Her name. Always her name.

Her eyes snap open. She turns, pivoting on a heel, and he startles, stepping back. _Halo_ , he starts to say, but she’s already tugging him towards her, grasping at anything, everything, even the fabric of his hood.

His eyes find her—dark, gleaming. And there’s something there: regret, or guilt, or something different altogether. She likes to think it’s want.

He exhales. Blinks. _Are you sure?_

She nods. And then he’s leaning down, and she’s arcing up, and their mouths meet, teeth clashing together.

She wouldn’t even call it a kiss. It’s quick. Too quick to mean anything, but his hands still find her hips, pressing half-moons into the bone; his arms still find her middle, crushing her against him. Her hands find his hair, his jaw, the scar on his left temple from the fight with the Twi’leks on G0-T0’s ship, and it’s—desperation, and fear, and something dark. Nameless. Reflective, like liquid. The Force flares, a gust of heat, and—

She pulls away. He lets out a small, breathy sound, chasing after her, but she presses her palm to his chest. He bows his head, panting.

He looks strangely penitent.

“Come back to me,” she says, finally, once she’s found her voice. “ _Please_ , Atton.”

He shudders. She feels it through the Force, but also through their bodies, pressed so firmly together. And it’s almost too much—what she wants; what she can’t have, not here, not now. And, underlying all that, what he wants: not the images he projects to keep her and Kreia from probing his mind, but similar. Softer. Something meant for another world, or maybe just other people.

She steps back. He reaches for her, arms outstretched, but the rain separates them—a nearly impenetrable wall.

“Remember,” she says. “You promised.”

She leaves.

He doesn’t follow her.


	2. Sea

He tries to hide his presence from her.

Which isn’t surprising. If their positions were reversed—a strange, impossible thing, one she rarely thinks about: but when she does, it’s with something akin to regret, all those years she spent on the outside looking in—she would probably do the same. Nar Shaddaa is, as he once said, a perfect place to lose oneself. It’s why she hid here for so long after the war, hands shaky, unstable. She couldn’t even hold a glass of juma, the glass shattering to red bits in her grasp.

She can’t see him, but she can _see_ him, glowing softly in the center of her mind. He slips effortlessly through the throngs, dipping this way, ducking that. It’s an art. A dance, the steps intricate, complex. But of course he knows it well. Pride radiates from him, tinged with smugness, a bruise turning oily green.

It almost feels like a game. Though everything’s a game, these days, and it makes her nostalgic for the nights spent in the cockpit of the _Ebon Hawk_ —Atton playing pazaak in his head, counting the totals under his breath, Halosia watching him. Learning.

He comes up behind her. And she doesn’t say anything, just scoots to one side, patting the ground beside her.

“Damn,” breathes Atton, and there’s amusement, there, with just the right amount of annoyance. He doesn’t like to fail. Or, she supposes, he doesn’t like to be known, and this—whenever he tries to sneak up on her, the soles of his boots like tiny hammers on the inside of her skull—is perhaps the worst kind of flouting, that she always knows where he is, that she can always pick him out of a crowd. “And here I thought I was doing _so well_.”

“You rely too much on your surroundings,” she says, “and not enough on the Force itself. It’s easy to get lost here, which is sometimes a good thing, sometimes the key to recognizing someone you know, even if they’re trying their best to blend in.”

She remembers what Kreia said. _It is Nar Shaddaa, the true Nar Shaddaa, that you feel around you. It is this moon, with the metal and machines stripped away and the currents of the Force laid bare._ And what she’d said in return: _The currents are moving so fast, almost frantically._

Everything is fast, here. Desperate. And when she closes her eyes—blots out everything but the Force, which so often lies dormant inside her—focuses, she can feel the keening. The want, so undeniable, too loud to ignore. But Atton is at home on this moon. An animal returned to its habitat. And so there’s a quietness in him, one she does not pick up on anywhere else. Not even in the Hawk’s cockpit, sequestered from everyone else, even her. And perhaps he senses the same thing in her, even now, even after so long.

Atton sighs, settling beside her. For a moment, their shoulders brush, and that—that, the eye of the storm. Her body remembers every place they’ve touched. The sensation, which is so much like being burnt alive—she remembers it well: all those voices, crying out as one; a great sound, followed by the sickest hush—is magnified, here. Which is maybe why he comes with her on these trips. Maybe he feels it, too.

“They’re loading the Hawk,” he says. “I managed to haggle the price down a bit, and before you say anything, _no_ , I did _not_ use the Force to persuade him. So get off my back, all right?”

She doesn’t say anything. Just peers at him, brow quirked. “You don’t believe me?” He sounds appalled. And it’s awful, but her lips curl of their own accord, hinting at a smile. His lips part, too—wider, wider—as he knocks his shoulder with hers. “I always knew you were capable of it.”

“Of what?”

“Smiling.”

She snorts. “You’re such an ass.”

“You like it.”

She hums, unwilling to legitimize him with a response. But the answer’s obvious—of course she likes it, and of course it’s why she brings him with her on these short little supply runs. The _Ebon Hawk_ has felt strangely… small, of late, and stifling. Not enough room for even just the two of them, not since—

She shakes her head. Pushes the thought away, but it’s too late—the image is already there, heels dug into her soil, bursts of flowers at its feet. So many things she tries to forget, and the kiss is one she just cannot seem to let go of. Maybe because it returns when he touches her, a sudden snap of sensation. A thousand moments, all at once, and all of them include his mouth on hers. The sound of bodies squelching together in the pouring-down rain.

Atton’s looking at her. And she knows he knows. She can feel him there, right at the barrier, fingering the hole the memory wriggles through. Making it harder for her to resist it—this—him.

“Atton,” she says, quietly.

“What?” But he’s still there— _poke_ , _poke_ , _poke_.

“Don’t.” A warning. But this _is_ Atton, and they _are_ on Nar Shaddaa. This is where he’s at his most cocky, which is to say this is where he’s at his most dangerous.

“Would it be so bad?” His voice is light. And she’s sure that, if she were to tear at the hole herself, a procession of vulgar images would nest in her body, pressing hungrily against her skull. Even now, he is trying to protect himself, and it marvels her. This tired, hungry planet, and all he can think about is her, the damage she could do if allowed to roam free.

It’s not the images she cares about, though. It’s what lies beneath—the softness there, the softness only she sees. And if he were to let her in, that’s what she’d see. No matter what happens in Atton’s mind, the fantasies he conjures, he is always there at the break of dawn. They share a bed, and his arm is slung around her waist, nose pressed to the nape of her neck.

“Would it be so bad?” he asks, again. She almost loses it—him—in the sea of energy, rippling inward, converging on her.

“It was a mistake.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she presses. “It’s not as easy as—”

“Going after what you want?”

He makes it sound easy. And she can’t blame him for that—once, a very long time ago, choices had come easy for her. Do this or the Republic falls. Do that or people die. But things are rarely so clear-cut, it seems, now that she’s older. In the grand scheme of things, war is easy. There are worse things that life has to offer, like what comes after war, like what happens when the ground is all smoke and even the dimmest of lights have been blown out.

Still. It’s nice to think about. She remembers his hand on the back of her head, holding her, keeping her steady. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that her _body_ remembers. Which would explain how it aches for him. How even the most unknowable things seem familiar.

“I’m an island,” she says, quietly. And Atton snorts.

“You’re a what now?”

“An island.” She lifts a shoulder. “Something the Masters used to say.”

His brows are dark, jagged. She thinks of the lightning strikes on Dxun, the charred earth they leave behind. “I call bullshit. If you’re an island, Halo, we’re all gonna drown.”

Maybe. But then again, maybe—

“And if we’re all drowning?” She still can’t look at him. “What then?”

He exhales, and the breath is short, raspy. Like a laugh, but not quite. “Then we latch onto the first person we see,” he says, finally, “and we never let go. Not for anything.”


	3. Laughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAD A RLY HARD TIME W THIS PROMPT BC ATTON & HALO ARE SAD & ANGSTY...
> 
> I also decided that, since the original meme I reblogged was one of those five sentence ones, I was gonna try and finish this prompt in five sentences... but five sentences quickly became five paragraphs... which, imho, is far more realistic (yes, this is more than five paragraphs, but according to my fiction workshop prof, things in parentheses Do Not Count... so let me have this, y’all)
> 
> there’s a teeny tiny veiled reference to suicide, so pls take care of yourselves! and enjoy!!!

Atton, she notices, rarely ever seems to laugh. Though maybe it’s a failing on her part, a failing to recognize that animal in him, more tender than she’s used to.

He laughs when he kisses her, but that is less of a laugh, more of an unraveling. Sometimes he bites her lip—usually it’s an accident, because of course they get carried away, relieved to be apart from their bodies, relieved to be in the hands of someone other than themselves—and he’ll pull back, eyes wide. _Halo._ And she’ll shake her head, hands coming up to touch his jaw, the vein near his neck, the one that throbs. _It’s okay._ And he laughs. And it’s quiet. Unassuming. Disbelieving, maybe, that they can both have such violence inside them, yet still possess a faculty for love.

Maybe he’s waiting for her to run. And, really, she can’t blame him—in many ways, she, too, is waiting for him to run, only every time she thinks they’ve finally crossed that line in the sand, she turns, and Atton’s… there. Which is probably why she holds him so tightly, even in the cockpit of the _Ebon Hawk_ , even when there’s nowhere for him to go.

(She’d asked him, once, where he’d go. And he’d shrugged, gesturing to the space stretching before them: a pin-pricked haze of emptiness, interrupted by occasional ribbons of nebulae. _Somewhere._

_That’s not an answer._

_What do you want me to say?_ He’d looked at her, then, eyes dark, gleaming. _That I’ve thought about leaving? Because I have._

 _So have I._ Only she always seems to go beyond leaving, to never coming back. What it would feel like to thrust a ‘saber through her gut, propel a sheet of songsteel clear through her skull.

 _That’s what makes us who we are_ , he’d said. _We’re pragmatists, Halo. Nothing lasts forever. We’ve learned that the hard way._ )

There are lines everywhere, though. The desert follows them—perhaps even lives inside them, turning their mouths dry, their tongues a kind of useless muscle. She doubts he’ll tell her when it’s time and, really, she’s glad for that. What would she say? What would convince him to stay?

Nothing. And nothing would convince her to stay, either, not even the things Kreia says—those strange almost-prophecies, the ones that leave her uncertain, or on craggy ground. Something calls to her. Something beyond the Outer Rim, in Wild Space, or perhaps even in a different life altogether. And she thinks Atton deserves better than that, better than an ending with her, an ending that is not an end and more of a descent into slumber. So when he laughs, she does not try to bottle it, or even really tame it. (She’s sure the Force would let her. Even now, it writhes, with the hunger that pervades Nar Shaddaa.) That soft-mouthed creature, not meant for her ears.

At least the _Ebon Hawk_ bears witness to it.


End file.
